


My Soul Laid Bare

by ScoutLover



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Friendship, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Friendship, Gen, It's all about the Athos Angst, Male Friendship, Papa Treville, Putting the "Functional" in Front of "Alcoholic" Since 1625, milathos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 10:30:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6113752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>That flower is the signature of a woman who works for the cardinal.</i> (Athos, Knight Takes Queen)<br/>Athos finally comes clean to his brothers about Milady.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I know it’s been done before, but, after rewatching “Knight Takes Queen” and “Musketeers Don’t Die Easily” yet again, I needed to work out my own interpretation of how Athos finally told his brothers (and Tréville) about his past. Also, Athos’ promise to Tréville comes from my fic, [Five Times Tréville Saved Athos](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4267314/chapters/9661371).  
> 

He would never be able to explain later why he did it, except that he needed to _know_. Needed to be _certain_ , needed finally, for good or ill, to know the _truth_. And there was but one man who could provide the answer he sought. The man for whom _she_ worked.

Of course, to seek that answer would also be to risk bringing that man’s displeasure down upon him. He would have to reveal his suspicions and thus make himself dangerous, a threat, to a man who did not take threats lightly and who wielded almost unlimited power to deal with them.

But he had to _know_.

The dried flower stitched into the lining of the box they’d taken from Gallagher’s saddlebags haunted him. He’d known what it was immediately, had seen it too many times before. Christ, he carried one with him every day, wore it next to his heart in the locket _she’d_ given him! And God knew they’d crushed enough of the damned things beneath their bodies as they’d made love in the meadows of la Fère.

_They’re like a carpet on the grass outside. Forget-me-nots. I’ll press one for you, as a memento of a perfect day._

She’d worn them in her hair …

Part of him – the part that still loved her, the part that would _always_ love her – told him he was wrong, told him it wasn’t her, _couldn’t_ be her. Forget-me-nots were hardly uncommon. And she’d been a street thief, not an _assassin_ –

But she’d been at Ninon’s trial. She had told foul lies and helped convict Ninon. She’d forced Ninon to confess to a crime, a sin, that had almost gotten her burned at the stake and that had seen her stripped of her title and wealth. All on Richelieu’s orders.

_Be careful, Athos. She has the cardinal’s protection. A blow against her is a blow against him. And he won’t take it lightly._

She had admitted it herself, hadn’t she? The night she’d confronted him after he’d saved d’Artagnan from getting his neck broken by Labarge?

_I’m a soldier, just like you. Well, perhaps not **quite** the same. But we all do have to exploit our natural talents._

He knew. He’d known then. But … he had to _know_. And from the only man who could give him the truth he needed.

And so, after the king and queen left to continue their reunion in private and the courtiers swept after them like leaves borne on a wind, even after Tréville ushered the Musketeers, who’d saved the queen but would never be acknowledged for it, out of the hall, he clung fast to his resolve, or to his madness, and intercepted the cardinal before he, too, could make his escape. It was foolish. Worse, it was _dangerous_. But he needed to look into the man’s eyes and _see_ his answer in them.

“Your Eminence,” he called, his tone more comte than Musketeer, “may I congratulate you on capturing the culprit?”

 _Flattery, Olivier,_ his mother had counseled him with a sly smile. _Flattery will get you everywhere at court. Aim for a man’s vanity, and you will never miss._

Of course, his mother had never encountered Richelieu. He had a certain vanity, yes, but so much more. And, as the man stopped and fixed piercing eyes upon him, he saw it all before him now – the fierce intelligence, the cold cunning, the ambition that was never just for himself but for France. And, God help him, Athos could understand that. If the two of them had anything in common, it was devotion to France.

He also saw irritation in those eyes, and recognition. Not just of Athos of the King’s Musketeers and the familiar shadow at Captain Tréville’s back, but of … what? _The clever one_ , as Tréville so often and with such relish told him Richelieu considered him? The stern, quiet soldier who risked his life almost daily, and had more than once nearly lost it, in service to the king?

Or as the Comte de la Fère?

Richelieu knew him in _all_ those guises. He saw that, too, in those sharp, cold eyes.

But still he would see more, _needed_ to see more, and so he pressed on, like a man playing with an adder.

“I don’t believe Mellendorf acted alone,” he said, his eyes never leaving Richelieu’s. He kept his tone smooth, allowed a small smile to play about his lips. He had always hated coming to court when he’d been a comte, had hated this world of glib lies and shifting loyalties, and the ease with which everyone around him employed them. But generations of breeding and thorough training had insured that he possessed that same facility when he needed it, and he employed it now. “The assassins were hired by a woman. Perhaps the woman who killed the money-lender.”

D’Artagnan had said he’d smelled jasmine. _He’d_ smelled jasmine that night outside the Bastille, that night he’d … they’d …

_You still wear my locket. Why?_

_Sometimes … sometimes I ask myself that same question._

_Shall I show you why?_

“Be assured,” he told Richelieu, watching every flicker of the man’s eyes, every minute twitch of muscle in his face, “I will not rest until she is brought to justice.”

And he saw it then, though he would never be able to explain exactly what sign the cardinal, a man so skilled in giving nothing away, had let slip. Perhaps it was something only the two of them, who knew _her_ , could recognize between them. Because he was fairly certain that Richelieu saw _her_ shadow in _his_ eyes as well.

_Had she ever brought him forget-me-nots?_

But the man recovered quickly, schooling his face into a mask of cool disinterest and smiling faintly. “Excellent. Forgive me,” he said, dipping his head in a shallow bow and gathering his piety about him like a cloak, “I am late for Mass.” And he strode past Athos like a man truly late for an appointment with God.

Athos turned and watched him go, wondering if Richelieu’s talks with God were as tortured as his own. How would God deal with a priest who had ordered the death of a queen, whose assassins had attacked a convent and murdered a nun?

“Her,” he called, letting his voice fall like the hammer of a primed and loaded pistol, “and whoever she works for.”

The shot landed. Richelieu stopped abruptly and turned sharply to stare at him, his face, for once, losing its carefully crafted mask of disinterest. Those cold eyes fixed upon him, and, in that moment, every single one of his suspicions, his _fears_ , was confirmed.

The bastard was guilty. _She_ was guilty. All the air went out of Athos’ lungs. Out of his world.

He’d known. He’d _known_. And yet he’d dared hope.

Because he was still, _always_ , her fool.

Unable to remain in this room a moment longer for fear of what he might do, and for once never bothering, _unable_ , to bow to France’s First Minister, he left the man gawping behind him and walked out of the audience hall, what little remained of his soul dying within him.

_Anne._

The ruin of his world was complete.

*****

As they left the peace of the palace behind and entered the busy streets, he purposely set himself apart, putting up and hardening every barrier, every defense, he’d perfected over the past five years, knowing that the softest touch just now, the smallest sign of care, of concern, would shatter him completely. _Not yet. Not here._ He would break, he knew that. The shadow he’d seen in Richelieu’s eyes confirming Anne’s guilt had made that inevitable. He could feel the cracks already opening within him, spreading through him, could feel himself teetering on the brink of the chasm yawning inside him. He would fall, he knew it; the darkness that had threatened for five years would finally claim him. All he could do now, all he could _hope_ to do, was choose the time and place himself.

Surely even he deserved so small a mercy.

So he desperately kept himself apart from anyone. Aramis, Porthos, and d’Artagnan were behind him, Tréville and the men the captain had pressed into service to save the queen ahead of him, and he carefully kept his eyes straight ahead, fixed on the distance, refusing to see, and thereby encourage, any of them. He held himself rigid, head high, back and shoulders straight, left hand clamped firmly about his sword hilt, wrapping himself in generations of aristocratic hauteur and walling himself behind the façade that had become his surest protection from the world – cold, forbidding, distant.

Not for nothing did his family share a name with a mountain.

And it almost worked. _Would_ have worked with any other men but those behind him. These men cared nothing for the mountain, were not at all intimidated by its jagged crags or imposing peaks. They had chipped steadily, stubbornly, at its stone heart, had scaled its heights with smiling ease, had surmounted and then brought down every defense it had thrown against them. They had found paths through stone walls or, where none existed, simply made their own, filling every cold crevice and dark cavern with their warmth and light.

Separately, each possessed the unique and maddening power to wear the mountain down. Together, they simply stormed and toppled the damn thing.

“All right, I’ve had enough,” Porthos rumbled behind him, and he closed his eyes briefly as the fractures deepened within him.

_No, God, no. Not yet. Not here._

But God had been ignoring his pleas since the day he’d had his wife dragged away and had fallen to his knees beside his brother’s dead body. Why should the bastard take any notice of him now?

Before he knew what was happening, Porthos moved around him and turned to face him, stopping in his path. A mountain himself. Then d’Artagnan surged into place at his right, Aramis to his left, two pairs of dark eyes fixed upon him, piercing through him. Their warmth filtering dangerously into him.

Ahead of them, Tréville spoke quietly to the other men, sending them on their way, then came back to join them, his fierce blue eyes fixing hawk-like upon him. Athos gasped softly and only barely kept himself from shuddering as the fractures deepened and threatened to split him open.

Still, desperate, he tried to get away, lifted his chin and attempted to step around Porthos. But the big man shifted with him, light on his feet as a cat, and moved closer still, stopping him with a hand to his chest.

“You know somethin’,” he growled, lowering his head and peering at Athos from beneath drawn brows.

Athos went cold and still inside, drawing himself up to his full height and lifting his chin, calling upon every single generation of arrogance, of haughtiness, of cold and ruthless _superiority_ that had been bred into him, and returned that stare with a frozen one of his own. “I know a great many things,” he said in clipped, precise tones, his voice the quiet hiss of a drawn blade. He dipped his stare to the big hand splayed against his chest, then dragged it slowly back up to Porthos’ face and arched one elegant, contemptuous brow. “Please remove that,” he ordered in a frigid tone.

Silence crashed upon them all. He had never, in five years, spoken to Porthos so, had never once so starkly drawn the lines of blood and breeding and _class_ between them, had never once seemed to recognize that such lines existed. It had always been one of the reasons Porthos loved him as he did.

And, for the sake of his own sanity, he was about to destroy that.

But why not? He’d ruined everything else that had ever mattered to him. Why alter the pattern of his life now?

“Athos,” d’Artagnan’s voice broke into the silence, soft and gentle and _worried_ , “what’s wrong? What did the cardinal say to you? You can tell us, you know that. You can tell us _anything_.”

Athos ignored him, knew he’d be lost if he permitted himself so much as a glance into d’Artagnan’s eyes. The power to break him open that had taken Aramis and Porthos so long to develop had taken this boy only _weeks_ , and Athos wasn’t fool enough to believe it wouldn’t shatter him utterly now.

So he continued to stare at Porthos as if Porthos were an erring lackey. “I will not be manhandled,” he declared coldly.

“Athos, don’t do this,” Tréville said softly, regarding him now with the same mixture of understanding, compassion, and sorrow he had been showing him for five years. The man had given him a chance when no other sane person would have, had given him a life, a purpose, a way back to honor. Tréville had always looked at him with perfect clarity, seeing not only whatever strengths he possessed that made him a good soldier, but also the glaring, _crippling_ weaknesses that made him a wreck of a man.

Tréville had once wrung from him the promise that he would never purposely seek his death while a Musketeer. Unfortunately, the man hadn’t thought to include _engineering his own destruction_ in that promise.

Though, to be fair, the seeds of Athos’ destruction had been sown _before_ he’d ever met Tréville.

“Athos.” Aramis moved closer to him, his dark eyes, which had ever been able to see straight through him, peering into his with a terrible intimacy. A terrible _love_. “Tell us,” he implored softly. Then, being Aramis, he reached out and laid a hand on Athos’ chest, next to Porthos’, but infinitely more gentle. Aramis was as deadly a man as Athos had ever known, yet now there was nothing of the soldier in him, only the healer. The _brother_. “You know you can tell us anything, and it will never change how we feel about you.”

Athos’ chest _burned_ beneath Aramis’ fingers, and his heart _hurt_. He knew Aramis believed that, truly _believed_ that the wound which had so poisoned Athos’ soul could never touch their brotherhood–

And suddenly he couldn’t do this. He had grown too used to leaning on them, too used to trusting himself into their hands, too used to drawing on them for strength and courage when his failed. He had ever been too weak to stand on his own, had proven that by falling in love with _her_ , by being unable to live without _her_ , by falling into a drunken ruin without _her_ and then lifting himself out only because of _them_.

He would never know why he mattered so to them, would never understand how they could consider him worthy of their concern. Their _love_. He had tried, goddamn it, he had _tried_ to hold himself apart, had told himself he simply wasn’t capable of caring about anyone else any more and certainly didn’t deserve anyone else’s care … and they had made the worst liar out of him.

Though certainly, after all this, they would understand, finally, just how wrong about him they had been …

But he did owe them. He had brought this threat into their lives, had brought this _poison_ into their lives. _She_ was his fault, his creation, and her sins were upon his head. The very least he could was to confess those sins to them in the hope that they, at least, might be spared from having to suffer for them.

He exhaled heavily and bowed his head, closing his eyes. Weakness and weariness swept through him and, for a moment, he feared he might actually fall. But the two hands on his chest remained there, d’Artagnan’s hand slipped around his right arm, and Tréville’s circled firmly around his left. For five years they had been doing this, pouring their strength into him, had been holding him up when he could no longer do it himself.

And somewhere in those five years, the greatest fear of his life had become losing the feel of these hands upon him.

“All right,” he breathed, lifting his head slowly and opening his eyes, forcing himself to look upon them. God, the light shining from them was _painful_ to behold. “You deserve to know.” He swallowed hard, knowing of only one way he would ever be able to do this. It was more evidence of his weakness, his utter _unworthiness_ , but it hardly mattered now. He was what he was. What _she_ had made of him. “Meet me in Tréville’s office in two hours, all of you, and you will have your explanation.”

“Two–” D’Artagnan frowned, ready, as ever, to face the world head-on _now_. “Why two hours?”

He shot a hard stare at the boy, angered by the sheer _faith_ in him that shone in those eyes. “Because I need a drink!”

And he did. Christ, the thirst was rising in him again, clawing at him again, making his every bone and muscle ache. All around them were taverns, and he could almost _smell_ the wine in them, could certainly _hear_ it calling to him, _feel_ its promise whispering through his blood. That promise was a lie, he knew, but he no longer cared. And he could, already, feel his hands beginning to shake.

“Then we’ll come with you,” d’Artagnan said with a gentle smile, “and you can tell us now.”

“ _No!_ ” he spat, the thirst starting to crawl its way up his throat. He needed _time_ , time to numb himself, to distance himself, to drink himself into that place where the pain and the shame no longer sliced at his soul. “Tréville’s office, two hours. The four of you.”

Tréville sighed. “Athos–”

He fixed a burning stare upon his captain, praying that they would all simply do as he asked and _go_. “ _Listen_ to me!” he snarled desperately, knotting his shaking hands into white-knuckled fists. “I will tell you _everything_ , I swear it, but I can only do this once, and I cannot do it _sober_!”

Porthos winced and shook his head, all the former anger in him now given way to concern. “Then at least let us–”

“Goddamn it, _no_!” he cried hoarsely, barely resisting the urge just to tear himself out of their hands and run as far from them as he could. “If I am going to slice open my veins and _bleed_ for you, then at least allow me to do it on my own terms!”

That startled them, _shocked_ them. Porthos rocked backward as if from a blow and dropped his hand, Aramis’ eyes widened and his face paled, and d’Artagnan and Tréville stiffened and held more tightly to him. Long, long moments passed, during which he tried to get his nerves under control, tried not to appear quite so much the madman.

That, he had no doubt, would come later.

Porthos swallowed hard and nodded slowly, then returned that big hand to his chest, though this time only _love_ and _care_ flowed from his touch. His eyes, so deep and dark and _kind_ , sought and held Athos’ once more, and for a moment all Athos wanted to do was to throw himself at the man, into arms he _knew_ would catch and close protectively about him, and seek refuge, shelter, in that strong and boundless heart.

Christ, he was pathetic.

“All right,” Porthos said in a quiet, gentle voice, lifting his other hand to silence the protest d’Artagnan started to make, his eyes never leaving Athos’. “Two hours, Tréville’s office. We’ll wait. But at least tell us where you’ll be drinkin’.”

He huffed a sharp, impatient breath. Damnation, how was he supposed to know? The first tavern he stumbled into, most likely.

“Pick a place,” Porthos went on, his voice still low, still soft, but utterly compelling. “You know every tavern in the area. So pick one, tell us which, an’ go there.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Aramis said with a small, sad smile, lifting a hand to brush against Athos’ cheek, “if you _don’t_ return to us in two hours, we need to know where to start looking for you.”

He blinked, and stupidly wondered why he’d asked. They _would_ come. Of course they would. They’d been doing it for five years. Why should he expect them to stop now?

He drew a deep, steadying breath and looked around, getting his bearings. He knew where they were, could name five taverns within a comfortable walk. He was intimately familiar with all of them.

“The Black Gate,” he sighed tiredly, simply choosing one at random.

What did it matter? What, now, could _any_ of this possibly matter?


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The further unraveling of Athos.

He lifted his cup again and drank deeply from it, no longer bothered by – or even tasting, really – the sourness of the wine. Five years ago, he would have been horrified simply by the _existence_ of such swill, would have refused even to entertain the notion of drinking it.

Five years ago, wine had been a pleasurable indulgence. Now it was the crutch he needed just to make it through the day, and its quality was utterly irrelevant.

Strange how the world could change so completely between one day and the next. In the _hours_ between the plunge of a blade and the drop of the rope.

He drained his cup and poured himself another, his hand still steady. Mostly. He lifted the cup and drank again, swallowing desperately. The world was still too much in focus, his senses still too clear. His pain still too _sharp_. Fortunately, he had another bottle. And more time.

He glanced at the pendant watch clutched in one hand. The clock, whose numbers were still much too clear to him, was set in the middle of a gold cross decorated with a small red gem at each point. It had originally been his grandfather’s, then his father’s, and was given to him by his mother upon his father’s death.

 _For the Comte de la Fère_ , she had said, slipping it around his neck as his valet had dressed him for the funeral and then pressing a kiss to his cheek. _You will make him proud, Olivier, I know it._

He was glad she hadn’t lived to see how very wrong she’d been.

Two tables over, a thin, black-toothed boy eyed the watch with a greedy leer. One would-be thief had already tried to steal it. Athos had broken his wrist and several fingers without a word, and the bastard’s howls had sent a warning through the tavern. They could stare at the watch and covet its wealth all they wished, but he’d gut the next one who tried to touch it.

He’d sacrificed enough of his family’s legacy to the graspings of a thief.

He drained and refilled his cup, drained it and refilled it, finished one bottle and waved to the serving girl for another. The noise in the room grew more distant, muted, his senses dulled and his mind slowed. Not enough, though. He could still see _their_ faces, the questions and worries in their eyes, could still hear their voices, feel their hands upon him.

Could still see that damned flower.

Taste _her_ lips.

_Athos, swear that nothing will ever come between us._

Nothing … except the murder of his brother.

_You still wear my locket. … Shall I show you why?_

Because he was a weak-willed fool with no control over his own traitorous heart.

Another cup, another bottle, and another. The hour hand on his father’s watch moved inexorably, and he couldn’t decide if time was passing too fast or too slowly.

He reached for the bottle and knocked over his cup. Wine spilled out, and he stared transfixed at the spreading red liquid, his soul going cold as the images, the memories, rose again and threatened to suffocate him.

_Dark red blood pooled over Thomas’ cooling body. A once white shirt clinging soddenly to a chest that no longer moved. Crimson dripping from her white hands. Thomas’ gray face slack and still, the familiar smile gone from blue-tinged lips–_

He shot to his feet with an anguished cry, knocking over the table, and staggered blindly from the tavern.

*****

“Where the hell is he?” Porthos demanded, pacing around Tréville’s office like a caged panther. Worry gnawed at him and tension rolled off his tight, powerful frame in waves as his mind painted in lurid detail a thousand and one ways for Athos to come to harm. “It’s been more than two hours!”

“He’ll be here,” d’Artagnan said from his chair for what had to be the hundredth time, arms wrapped tightly around himself and his right leg jiggling up and down. He wasn’t at all certain he believed it himself – he’d seen Athos lose himself in drink too many times not to know the dangers – but he clung to the notion that this had been the man’s idea.

“Do we have any idea what he said to the cardinal? Or what Richelieu said to _him_?” Aramis asked, wondering what in that exchange could have sent Athos running so desperately to the bottle. He was sitting on the floor, his back against a wall, the tools for cleaning his pistol between his legs. It was a nervous habit, he knew, one he’d developed after Savoy, but the familiar task occupied his hands and quieted his mind. _Usually._ Just now, though, there was precious little quiet to be found. Not when he could still so plainly see the despair that had been almost _madness_ in Athos’ eyes. He glanced to his side, to the neat pile of belongings there. Before letting Athos go, they’d taken his cloak, hat, and even his gloves, knowing that, with enough wine, he was likely to leave them in the tavern. Swept by another wave of concern, he reached out and touched his fingers to the hat, uttering a silent but heartfelt prayer for his absent friend.

Tréville sighed and leaned back in his chair behind his desk, his face a mask of worry. “I’ve no idea,” he sighed, blue eyes narrowed in thought. “But I would guess it had something to do with the woman he suspects. He seems to know something about her.” He exhaled heavily and bowed his head, rubbing a hand over his eyes as he recalled Athos’ troubling words. _She’s the most dangerous person I’ve ever known._ Who was she? How, exactly, did Athos know her? And what in the bloody hell had possessed him to confront _Richelieu_ , of all people? “Damn it, would it _kill_ the man to _talk_ to us?”

“ _Something’s_ killing him, that’s for certain,” d’Artagnan breathed, frowning and shaking his head as he recalled Athos’ torment as they’d left the palace. A sudden chill rippled through him. The last time he’d seen that anguish in Athos’ eyes they’d been in la Fère, bathed in the firelight of a burning chateau … “He looked as if he were preparing for his execution.”

“No,” Aramis breathed, dark eyes soft and sad. “We’ve seen that before, remember?” He thought again of how Athos had looked in the street, face deathly pale and eyes glittering with a soul-deep pain, and barely suppressed a shudder. Athos, their unbreakable, unshakable _Athos_ , the man who endured wounds with barely a whimper, who ran into battle with a grin, who had survived that bloody siege in the convent without ever once losing his composure, had been trembling as if he would fly apart at any moment. “This was something much worse.”

“I say we knock all this off an’ just go down to the Black Gate an’ get him,” Porthos growled, his patience at the snapping point. Athos was in _pain_ , and it went against everything in his nature simply to let that continue. “Whatever’s eatin’ at him, he doesn’t need to be alone.” He swept fierce eyes around the room, daring any of the men there to argue. “We’ve left him that way too many times before, an’ it never comes to any good. He needs to be _here_ , with _us_ , where he belongs!”

D’Artagnan rose to his feet at once, the memory of la Fère still heavy in his mind. They’d left Athos alone _then_ , too, and he’d been almost too late in saving the man. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. “He _is_ late,” he said as Tréville arched a brow at him. “And we did say we’d come after him.”

The captain huffed out a short laugh. “Go after him _where_ , exactly? You’re assuming he actually went to the Black Gate, that he _wants_ you to find him. He could be anywhere.”

Not that it really mattered, he knew. These men would gladly search every tavern in Paris if they had to.

Fortunately, the sound of slow, uneven footsteps on the balcony outside saved the city from their assault. Each man sucked in a hard breath and strained to listen, Porthos and d’Artagnan turning sharply toward the door, Aramis scrambling to his feet. Only Tréville remained seated, though he leaned forward expectantly and clasped his hands tightly together on the desk, his blue eyes fixed upon the door. The steps continued their shuffling progress, and all four held their breath while their hearts pounded in their chests.

Only when the door swung open and Athos almost tumbled into the room did they breathe again. He righted himself at the last minute, grabbing the door frame and using it to pull himself upright, swaying precariously on his feet. Four pairs of eyes swept slowly, carefully over him, searching intently for any signs of harm.

He looked as he ever did after a binge, the neat figure of an officer in the King’s Musketeers given way to a disheveled drunk. His thick hair was in disarray, his eyes glassy and unfocused, his face pale save for the flush staining his cheeks and nose. His fine doublet hung open, and his white linen shirt was stained with wine. He clung to the door frame and braced himself against it, as if needing its support just to remain upright, and alternately narrowed and widened his eyes as he peered with exaggerated concentration into the room, trying to force his vision to focus.

It was something they had all seen far too many times.

“Where the hell have you been?” Porthos asked harshly, starting forward in a rush. But Athos shrank back, momentary panic flaring in his face, and the sight stopped Porthos in his tracks. The man looked a heartbeat away from turning and fleeing, so Porthos forced himself to remain still, knotting his big hands into tight fists at his sides.

At a subtle gesture from Aramis, d’Artagnan swallowed hard and then willed himself to relax, softening his stance and allowing a small smile to touch his lips. “We’ve been waiting for you,” he said softly, gently. He took a small step forward, then another, moving slowly, careful not to startle Athos. “We were worried you’d forgotten.”

Athos stared fixedly at the boy, torn between welcoming his approach and fleeing from it. He swayed again and took a small, clumsy step forward as the floor suddenly shifted beneath him, then simply sagged against the door frame with a groan, his pale face contorting into a mask of anguish. “ _Forgotten?_ ” he breathed, a world of sorrow, of despair, in the single word. “God is too cruel to grant me such a mercy.”

Aramis winced at the bitterness in the slurred voice, pained, as ever, by Athos’ scorn for the God he so loved. “Will you not let us help you?” he pleaded, as he’d been doing for five years now, the medic – and the man of faith – in him wanting desperately to lance the wound that festered in his friend’s soul and drain its poison. “Tell us what torments you so and let us help you find peace.”

He gave a breathless, bitter huff. “ _Peace!_ ” he sneered. “There can be no peace for me, in this life or the next.”

“Athos, please,” d’Artagnan finally reached his side and reached out, taking his arm in a firm grip and steadying him as he swayed again. “Come sit down. You said you had something to tell us–”

Athos scowled and pulled out of the boy’s grip, then pushed away from him, fixing his bleary gaze on Tréville and pushing past d’Artagnan, weaving unsteadily across the office toward the captain’s desk. “Gallagher’s box,” he slurred. “Where is it?”

Tréville frowned in confusion. They’d searched the box for any hidden pockets or compartments and found nothing save a handful of coins. Still, he could see no harm in humoring his lieutenant. “It’s here.” He got up and walked around his desk to a large cabinet against a wall, opening one of the doors and reaching within, withdrawing the small trinket box.

“I thought it would do better in my hands than in Richelieu’s,” he said, going to Athos and holding the box out to him. “No sense in letting him destroy the only link to Gallagher we’ve got.”

Athos swallowed hard and stared down at the box, reluctant to take it, fearful that some tangible trace of _her_ might remain on it. Finally he reached out, the tremor in his hand not entirely due to the wine coursing through his blood. As he took it from Tréville, though, he felt nothing of her.

Until he opened the lid.

The blue flower was there, dried and stitched into the lining on the lid, mocking him. _A memento of a perfect day._ Had she known _he_ would be there, at the convent? As Richelieu’s … agent … she had to have known that Musketeers would be guarding the Queen. But had she known that he, _specifically_ , would be one of those guards, or would his death simply have been a happy surprise to her?

He brushed a shaky finger against the small flower. “It’s a forget-me-not,” he said softly, to no one in particular.

Aramis watched his friend closely. Athos looked as if he were barely holding himself upright, as if everything in him _hurt_. And he was staring at that flower as if it had the power of life and death over him.

Or of damnation …

D’Artagnan stood at Athos’ side and frowned at the little flower, something about it tickling the back of his mind. It reminded him vaguely of … something … but he couldn’t figure out _what_. Maybe he’d seen them growing in Gascony. His mother might have had some in her garden.

“There is a legend about the name,” Athos said, turning away from his friends and beginning to pace a slow and erratic course about the office. The floor beneath him refused to lie still, dropping away or rising abruptly, keeping him off balance. More than once he almost tripped, as often over his own feet as any external object, and confusion filled him whenever he fetched up against something, whether it be the desk, a wall, or one of the furnishings in the room, none of which seemed to stay where they belonged.

“It’s said that once, long ago,” he murmured, “a knight in armor was walking with his love beside a river.” _How many times had they gone walking, made love, beside the streams that watered his lands?_ “They came upon a patch of blue flowers, and he knelt to pick some for her.” _She’d kissed him when he’d given them to her._ “But he lost his balance and fell in the river, weighted down by his armor. Before the water pulled him under, he tossed the flowers to his beloved and called out, ‘Forget me not!’ They are, it is said, a symbol of enduring love.”

Or of a cursed one …

“That is … very sweet,” Aramis said uncertainly, startled that Athos – practical, rational, logical Athos – should know so romantic a story.

“They grow in abundance at la Fère,” he breathed, remembering with a pang the blue-tinted fields. He could smell them again, their perfume almost suffocating him. _They’re like a carpet on the grass outside …_ “My mother used to bring them to Paris with her to have dressmakers match their color.” He stopped wandering about the office and stood still, bowing his head and again brushing a finger over the dried blossom, remembering how _blue_ the small petals had looked against her white skin, her dark hair. “She put them in every room,” he recalled in a broken whisper. “They were her favorite flower.”

“Your mother’s?” Porthos asked softly, staring worriedly at him, not liking at all the look of utter _hopelessness_ that clung to him. He’d not seen this side of Athos in years now, had hoped it had been vanquished entirely. He’d gladly snap the neck of whoever had brought it back.

Athos looked up at Porthos and frowned in confusion. “No,” he said, wondering how his mother had come into this. “My wife’s.”

The words landed in the room with the force of a bomb, twisting three faces into masks of stunned bewilderment and driving the breath from three sets of lungs. D’Artagnan alone _wasn’t_ surprised, not after that night at la Fère, but he still felt dread creeping through him. He had no idea what relationship the awful story of Athos’ wife could possibly have to that flower, but he knew it _couldn’t_ be good.

It already had the man’s soul in tatters …

“Your w– Your _wife_?” Aramis gasped, gaping at Athos as shock ripped through him. That was the _last_ thing he would have expected to hear from Athos, who seemed to regard all women – with the possible exception of Constance – with cool distrust, as if they were all incarnations of Eve ready to tempt him to his fall. He set his hands on his hips and frowned deeply, trying to make sense of the words. “You … were _married_?”

Porthos could do no more than stare and run the word over and over in his mind to make certain he’d not misheard. _Wife._ He’d known there had been _someone_ , but Athos had only ever mentioned “a woman.” Five years. Five years of fighting, bleeding, and almost dying together more times than he could count, and the bastard had _never_ said he’d been _married_. 

Tréville returned to his chair behind the desk and sank into it, sitting back and shaking his head slowly. He’d long wondered what trauma had driven Athos to give up his title and flee his lands, to abandon the security and comfort of his position as a nobleman and seek the much rougher, much more dangerous life of a soldier. Now it all made sense. He’d been grieving the loss of a beloved wife, had felt that loss too deeply to carry on his old life without her.

It certainly explained his drinking …

“You never told us,” Aramis said softly, staring at Athos and hurting for him. _There was a woman once. She died._ Those were the only words about his past that had ever crossed the man’s lips, no matter how much he’d been drinking. He’d buried his grief, his hurt, inside him, allowing it to eat away at him. “You’ve carried this pain alone all this time, when there was no need. We could have helped you. All we have ever wanted was to help you.”

Athos groaned and turned away, dropping the box to the floor and slumping forward, bracing his hands against the desk. He didn’t want their sympathy, didn’t deserve it. “No,” he whispered, “you couldn’t. There is no help for me.”

“Athos.” D’Artagnan couldn’t stand it any longer, couldn’t stand seeing his mentor, his _friend_ , in such torment. He knew the tale that was coming, knew its horrors and the agony it would cause the already suffering man, and wanted desperately to spare him. Nothing could possibly be worth this. He moved quickly to Athos’ side and leaned close against him, circling a protective arm about him. “You don’t have to do this now,” he said in a low voice. “Wait until tomorrow, when you’re sober and thinking clearly–”

“I told you,” he growled, straightening with an effort and shoving d’Artagnan away, “I can’t _do_ it sober!” He turned away from the boy and looked around the office, his gaze falling on the cabinet where he knew Tréville kept his wine. “I need a drink!” he rasped, starting forward.

But Porthos moved quickly to plant himself between Athos and the cabinet. “No,” he said in a low, firm voice, crossing his arms against his broad chest, “you don’t. You’ve ’ad enough.”

Athos stopped just in time to keep from plowing into him, frowning up at him and wavering on his feet. “Get out of my way.”

Porthos lifted his chin. “Make me,” he challenged.

Athos’ frown twisted into something bitter and hard. The thirst was rising in him again, gnawing at his bones and clawing into his flesh, demanding to be sated. “Goddamn you–”

“Maybe,” Porthos allowed, calm in the face of Athos’ anger. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before. “But it won’t be for tryin’ to keep you from drinkin’ yourself to death. I saw too many people go that way growin’ up in the Court. I won’t add you to that number.”

“Sit down, Athos,” Aramis called gently. He grabbed a chair and dragged it closer to the desk. “Porthos is right, you’ve had enough. Just sit down before you fall.”

He turned around too fast and would have proven Aramis’ concern to be justified but for Porthos’ quick action. The big man reached out and grabbed him, one hand gripping his left shoulder, the other closing firmly about his right arm, keeping him on his feet. “I’m not–”

“If that sentence ends with the word ‘drunk,’” Aramis cut in pointedly, “you really should rethink it.”

Athos scowled and drew himself up to his full height, yanking out of Porthos’ grasp. “Of _course_ I’m bloody _drunk_!” he sneered, swaying on his feet. “That was the whole _point_ of going into that goddamned tavern! But I am not drunk _enough_!”

“Yes, you are,” Aramis said firmly, forcing down his worry and sorrow for his friend, forcing himself not to see the _need_ in those haunted green eyes. Porthos had been right. They _had_ left Athos alone with his demons too many times in the past, had yielded too often to his desire to lock himself away and suffer in solitude, had been too indulgent with and made too many excuses for his drinking. And this was where it had led.

“Bastard,” Athos spat. He _wasn’t_ drunk enough. He could still feel the pain, the shame, slicing through him, still feel the horror at his complicity in _her_ deeds writhing within him. And soon they would know that horror as well. He’d need to be far drunker than this to face what he knew he’d see in their eyes.

Still, Tréville’s cabinet was hardly his only source of wine …

“Fine,” he snarled, staggering toward the still-open door. “If you won’t give it to me, I’ll get it myself.”

“ _Athos!_ ” Tréville shouted, surging to his feet in alarm. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

Athos stopped abruptly, framed in the doorway, and turned to face them, marking the position of each of his three friends. “I’m going to my room,” he said coldly, his tactician’s mind still functioning. “I know you can stop me before I get there, but you’ll have to fight me. Out there,” he waved a hand toward the training yard, “in full view of all the men.” His gaze locked with his captain’s. “And every effort you’ve made to convince them that I am worthy of their trust, worthy of leading them, will be destroyed.”

“Dear God,” Tréville groaned sickly, holding not the slightest doubt that Athos would do it. This talent for self-destruction was precisely what had prompted him to extract that promise from the man five years ago. “Get him in here,” he snapped, waving to Aramis and d’Artagnan. “And shut that damned door!” He glanced at Porthos. “The cabinet’s not locked. Get him some wine.” The immediate flare of desperate gratitude in Athos’ eyes drove a hard spear of pain through him. Christ, how could they have let this man reach this state?

Aramis reached Athos’ side and clasped a gentle hand to his shoulder. “Let us take care of you,” he urged softly, peering intently into those anguished eyes. “Please?”

Athos knew he had no choice. He needed a drink, and this was the only way he would get it. He exhaled heavily and sagged into Aramis, allowing the man to lead him to the chair while d’Artagnan closed the door behind him. He toppled into the chair and slumped forward, bracing his elbows on his thighs and dropping his head into his hands.

He wasn’t going to survive this …

Aramis stood at his side and laid a hand on his head, uttering another silent prayer for him, then began gently carding his fingers through the thick, disheveled hair. Porthos came and knelt before him, holding the cup out to him, lamenting his own helplessness. For all his strength, he had no idea how to lift from Athos the despair threatening to crush him. D’Artagnan took his place behind Athos, rubbing slow circles into his back, wishing he could spare him from this, wondering why Athos felt the need to torture himself with it at all.

What could it _possibly_ have to do with that damned box?

Tréville studied the bowed and broken man before him sadly. He’d not seen Athos in this state in years, and quailed at the thought of what might reduce him again to it, when he’d finally seemed to be finding his way.

 _Goddamn it, Richelieu,_ he fumed silently, _what have you done now?_

Athos lifted his head slightly and reached out to take the cup, but did not drink immediately. He stared down into it, into wine as red as blood, and swallowed hard. “Her name … was Anne,” he rasped. “And she was my world.” He lifted and turned his head to stare blearily up at Aramis. “I have warned you so many times that your passion for women would be your downfall.” He looked down again, a soft, mournful sigh escaping him. “I know, because it was mine.” He lifted the cup and drank, draining half of it in one long swallow.

“Athos,” d’Artagnan said softly, “you don’t–”

“I do,” he countered, rising clumsily to his feet and staggering forward, only barely side-stepping Porthos. He made his unsteady way to Tréville’s desk and, grabbing the bottle before the man could snatch it away, refilled his cup.

Porthos shot a hard stare up at d’Artagnan, studying the boy closely and reading plainly the fear and pain for Athos in that expressive face. “You know what he’s gonna tell us?” he demanded, rising slowly to his feet.

D’Artagnan sighed heavily and frowned, raising a hand to rub at his forehead. “Some of it, anyway.”

“How–”

“La Fère,” Aramis guessed, watching the guilt playing over the boy’s face. “When you went back for him.” He remembered the heavy scent of smoke that had clung to the two of them when they’d returned, the wound that had looked very like a burn at Athos’ temple, the black mood that had consumed Athos for days after, and scowled deeply. “What the hell happened there?”

“Anne,” Athos breathed before d’Artagnan could answer. “Risen from her grave and burning with vengeful wrath.” He drank again. “My angel, returned from hell.”

Aramis shared a look of utter confusion with Porthos, who shrugged and spread his hands helplessly. They both then turned to look at d’Artagnan, who took an involuntary step backward before the force of their stares.

“Leave him alone,” Athos defended the boy, a trace of his habitual command rising through the drunken slur of his words. “It is not his story to tell.”

“Clearly not,” Aramis said bitingly, “since he’s not seen fit to share it before.”

“He asked me not to,” d’Artagnan defended himself. “I gave him my word.”

“Can we get back to the dead wife risin’ from her grave?” Porthos asked, determined to defuse an argument before it started. Fighting among themselves wouldn’t help Athos. He crossed his arms against his chest and stared at Aramis until the other man rolled his eyes and waved a hand in airy dismissal, then turned to Athos. “What, exactly, did you mean by that? Is your wife dead or not?”

“Porthos!” d’Artagnan hissed, appalled by the big man’s bluntness, while Aramis winced and Tréville rolled his eyes.

But Porthos merely shrugged. He knew of only one way to get through to Athos when he was drowning in wine, and this was it.

“She was,” Athos breathed, remembering Remy’s anguish as he’d reported the awful deed done, as he’d shown him the fresh, unmarked grave. Only he’d been wrong, so wrong. It hadn’t been grief that had so wracked Remy, but guilt at deceiving his lord. And perhaps fear of what that lord would do should his deception be discovered. _But Anne had taken care of that herself, hadn’t she?_ “I thought she was. She _should_ have been.” He closed his eyes but saw her again, clad all in white, his beautiful bride, his loving wife, his brother’s murderer, her green eyes spitting hatred and defiance at him as the rope dropped around her neck. “I hanged her, after all.”


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D’Artagnan has a bit of confessing to do, as well.

“Mother of God!” Aramis whispered, clapping a hand to his mouth as his stomach heaved. He turned away and bowed his head, groping blindly for the cross around his neck and clutching at it until its edges cut into his hand.

Porthos could only stare at Athos in horror, his arms falling away from his chest, his mind reeling. “You h– _hanged_ her? Your own _wife_?”

Athos stared past Porthos, seeing again the tree, the field, the cart, _Anne_. “I was the Comte de la Fère,” he said in a flat, lifeless voice, “invested with the power to mete out high justice and low. I was the law. And so I sentenced my own wife to hang.” He raised the cup again to his lips.

But Porthos leapt forward and lashed out, knocking it away. “No, you don’t!” he growled furiously, refusing to allow Athos this escape. “Not this time!” He reached out and grabbed the man by his doublet, yanking him forward, staring down into startled, unfocused eyes. “You explain that to me!” he ground out through gritted teeth, the instinctive resentment at a lifetime of injustice surging through him. He’d seen lords deciding who lived and died for no better reason than their own amusement, and, while the rational part of him knew Athos wasn’t like that, the very idea of one man having that power enraged him. “You tell me what gave you the _right_ to hang your own _wife_!”

Athos hung unresisting in the big man’s fierce grip and stared blankly up at him. “I was the C–”

“Yeah, you’re the Comte de la fuckin’ Fère, I get that!” Porthos snarled, shaking him roughly. “Born higher an’ mightier than half of France, no doubt–”

“More than half,” Athos corrected dully. “My family has held our lands and title for hundreds of years. We helped build France, and we have helped generations of kings hold their thrones. We fought beside Joan of Arc.”

“Yeah, that’s impressive,” Porthos said shortly. And it was, though it was nothing he’d not suspected before. Athos could be more regal than the King. “But that doesn’t explain why _you killed your wife_ , does it?”

The bald words seared like lightning through Athos’ muddled brain, and he gasped and shuddered violently in Porthos’ merciless grip. “I–”

“Porthos, _stop_!” d’Artagnan demanded angrily, watching in horror the change coming over Athos. The older man’s eyes were wide, unblinking, fixed on something only he could see, and his breath hitched in his throat, his face twisting into a mask of unspeakable pain. D’Artagnan wanted nothing more than to _stop_ this, to grab Athos and spirit him away until this present madness left him. He loosed a harsh, wordless sound of fury and launched himself forward, only to be caught and held back by Aramis.

“Porthos won’t hurt him,” the marksman assured him.

“He already is!” d’Artagnan snarled, fighting against the older man’s grip. “ _Look_ at him!”

Aramis did, and felt his heart clench in his breast. Athos was staring at Porthos, _past_ Porthos, tears leaking from his eyes. The man had gone marble white and was starting to shake. “Porthos–”

“Yeah, I got him,” the big man breathed, his anger draining from him in a rush, leaving only concern in its wake. He could feel the tremors running through Athos’ body, hear his frantic, panicked breathing, and shifted his hold from restraining his friend to supporting him. “Athos?”

“I had no choice,” he whispered in a thick, choked voice. “She m– murdered … my brother. Plunged my dagger … into Thomas’ heart!”

“Oh, God!” Porthos groaned, crushing the smaller man to him in a hard, tight hug. “I’m sorry!” he whispered, burying his face in Athos’ hair as his own sorrow rose up sharply within him. He remembered Charon, the aching _loss_ that had followed his death, even after all the man had done, the anger he’d felt at Aramis though he’d _known_ he’d had no choice, and wondered how much worse the pain would have been with the ties of blood and _love_. “I’m so sorry!”

Athos shuddered violently and gasped harshly for breath that never fully came, clutching at Porthos with shaking hands and holding on for dear life as he saw it all again – Anne’s hands dripping blood, Thomas’ body at his feet, his soul going cold and dark as his world shattered–

“It was my fault!” he gasped strickenly, the guilt a hideous, searing pain inside him. “She lied … about who she was … about _everything_! She lied her way into my life, into my _heart_! Thomas tried to warn me, but I didn’t listen– _I loved her!_ ” he sobbed, sinking helplessly against Porthos, consumed in shame. “I _loved_ her, and she _lied_ to me! Thomas was the only family I had left. Protecting him was my responsibility, my _duty_ , and I _failed_ him! I brought Anne into my family’s home, into my _life_ , and _she killed my brother!_ ”

Porthos held Athos as he collapsed against him and sank slowly, carefully to the floor, cradling the man to him and rocking him slowly, feeling almost sick. He’d seen Athos in almost every state through their years together – hurt, sick, enraged, and, God yes, drunk – but he’d never seen him _broken_. Until now. It was something he never, _ever_ wanted to see again.

D’Artagnan tore out of Aramis’ grasp and rushed forward, dropping to his knees at Athos’ side and laying his head on his shoulder, wrapping his arms around him and murmuring soft words of comfort to him. Aramis staggered over, white-faced and shaken to his soul, and sank down at Athos’ other side, slipping an arm about him and holding tightly to him, saying nothing but bleeding love and concern for him.

Tréville left his desk and started toward his fallen lieutenant, but stopped himself before he reached him, reluctant to intrude. He and Athos were as much friends as commander and lieutenant, but these men were _brothers_ , and, just now, Athos needed them far more.

“The worst part is,” d’Artagnan said softly, knowing Athos couldn’t go on just now, “she’s not dead. Somehow, she survived. And she was there, at la Fère, when we were.” He shivered and swallowed hard at the memory, at the sheer _terror_ that had gripped him when he’d seen those flames. “She set the house on fire, with Athos inside. I had to drag him out. He was barely conscious.” For Athos’ sake, he didn’t say _drunk_.

“Dear God,” Aramis breathed, crossing himself instinctively. “And we made you go back there–”

“You had no choice,” Athos whispered weakly, resting against Porthos’ chest and trying – failing – to draw some of the big man’s strength into himself. _Christ, he was cold._ “Porthos would have died if we hadn’t.”

“You must have been dyin’ while we were there,” Porthos sighed, his memories of their time at la Fère still murky. “An’ we didn’t even see it.”

“You had … other concerns,” Athos said, finally lifting his head. He still felt as if every breath would crush him, as if the black _ache_ in his soul might consume him, but he knew he had to go on, if only for _their_ sakes. They still didn’t understand.

“I think we could all use a drink,” Aramis said, forcing a small, brittle smile as he reached out to brush Athos’ shaggy hair away from his ashen, tear-streaked face. “Or maybe we should just get you to bed and let you sleep.”

“Not yet.” He drew a slow, shuddering breath and pulled slowly out of Porthos’ arms, determined to sit up on his own, though he felt as weak and as fragile as cracked porcelain. But he had to do this for _them_. “There’s more.”

Tréville did come forward then, his patience with Athos’ ability to torture himself at an end. “Later,” he ordered. “Whatever it is can wait–”

“No, it can’t,” Athos insisted, turning to look at his captain. “Because d’Artagnan was wrong.” As the boy made an indignant sound, he reached out and laid a white but mostly steady hand on his arm to quiet him, his eyes still on Tréville. “The worst part of this isn’t that Anne is still alive. It’s that she’s in Paris, and,” he steeled himself, took a breath that _hurt_ , then forced himself to go on, “she works for Richelieu. She’s the one who hired Gallagher to kill the queen. _That’s_ what he was trying to tell us by directing us to that box. It was _Anne’s_ box. It must have contained her payment to him.”

Again, a heavy, shocked silence fell upon the four men as they struggled to make some sense of Athos’ words. It seemed impossible, and impossibly _cruel_ , that such a thing could be true. The loss of a brother and a wife must surely be enough for one man to suffer. But _this_ –

“You can’t be certain,” Tréville said hoarsely, dazedly, for once praying his lieutenant was wrong. “One flower doesn’t prove anything–”

“It’s not just one flower,” Athos breathed. He reached inside his shirt and pulled out the locket that had lain against his skin since the day she’d given it to him. In five years, the men closest to him in all the world had never seen what was inside. With trembling fingers he opened it for them now, revealing the small blue flower she’d had pressed and set into ivory for him. _A memento of a perfect day._ “I told you,” he whispered as Aramis gasped and Porthos swore, “they were her favorite flowers. She had this made for me. And she used to leave small bouquets of them on our b– our bed. She would draw them on notes she wrote to me. They became her signature.”

D’Artagnan stared at the flower, the earlier itching in his mind growing into a dark and terrible realization. He remembered a necklace in a pouch of coins, a single flower worked into the silver – _a little good luck charm, and a token of my friendship_ – and a small bouquet of blue flowers left on his bed after the Vadim affair. He remembered a woman in his arms, a black silk choker covering scars on her throat–

_No …_

“Still,” Tréville persisted, desperate for this _not_ to be true, “flowers are no proof. You can’t–”

“She admitted as much to me,” Athos sighed. He turned and reached for the cup Porthos had knocked from his hands and, bracing himself against the big man’s solid shoulder, climbed unsteadily to his feet. _God, surely they couldn’t begrudge him wine now._ He staggered to Tréville’s desk, grabbed the bottle and filled his cup, lifted it and drained it in a long, desperate drink, and refilled it.

“Explain that, please,” Aramis said softly, putting a hand to his chest as a hard ache blossomed there.

_Christ, this couldn’t be happening._

Athos raised the cup again, but only drank half. He turned and leaned against the desk, needing its solid support to stand. “I’ve seen her,” he breathed, staring down at the floor but seeing _her_ , in a darkened street outside the Bastille. _She’d smelled of jasmine._ “After d’Artagnan went after Labarge, and I got him out. She was there, in the street. She admitted working for Richelieu, called herself a soldier.”

_And I kissed her …_

“You confronted her … alone,” d’Artagnan said in a hollow tone, horror at his own part in all this still gripping him. “Even after what she almost did to you at la Fère?”

Athos sighed and waved a weary hand. “I didn’t seek her out. I didn’t even know she was there. She slipped up on me, out of the shadows.” A chorus of soft gasps, groans and muttered curses met his words, and, as he realized what he’d said, realized just how bad it sounded, how careless it had made _him_ sound, he doubted these men would ever trust him enough to follow him again.

_I could have killed you just now._

Perhaps it would have been better for them all if she had …

Aramis turned away, too sick and stunned to speak, and made his way on shaky legs to Tréville’s wine cabinet, gathering more cups and another bottle and taking them to the captain’s desk. He tried to pray as he filled the cups, but, just now, the familiar words wouldn’t come. He lifted his cup and drank from it, needing the false strength of the wine until his own returned, then turned to Athos and swept his gaze slowly, intently over the man, wondering how in the hell he was still standing. Was still _sane_.

Athos read the fear for him, the _love_ for him, in those dark eyes, and felt fresh tears sting his eyes. Dear God, these men. He didn’t deserve them.

“Stop it,” Aramis said softly, seeing again the shame he’d so often seen overtaking this man and now, finally, understanding its cause. He lifted his free hand and reached out, curling long fingers around Athos’ neck and squeezing gently. “None of this is your fault.”

He knew that wasn’t true. “When I h– hanged her,” he rasped, the words thick and bitter in his mouth, “I didn’t stay to see it done. I c– I couldn’t. I ordered the rope put around her neck, I ordered the cart pulled away, but when– when–” He flinched and gasped as he heard the _hiss_ of the rope over the branch and dropped his cup from fingers that would no longer function. “I couldn’t watch!” he whispered, his whole body bowing in anguish. “I was too much a coward! If I had stayed– to make certain–” He buried his face in shaking hands. “I couldn’t bear to see her die!”

“Of course you couldn’t!” Aramis breathed, setting his cup on the desk and reaching out to draw Athos into his arms, holding the shaking man close. “My God, she was your wife! You _loved_ her. That doesn’t make you a coward!” He tightened his hold on Athos and rested a cheek against his head, closing his eyes. And every prayer of comfort, of solace, of healing, he knew flowed from his soul and rose to God.

Porthos rose to his feet and glanced at Tréville. The man was as pale and shaken as any of them, looked every bit as sick. Gone from him just now was any air of stern command. The blue eyes fixed on Athos were soft, sad, and filled with pain, much as any father’s would be when he beheld the suffering of a beloved son.

And this, Porthos knew, was why they would all follow the man into hell.

He turned away and moved to d’Artagnan, who looked as if his heart had been carved from his chest. “You all right?” he asked softly worriedly. The boy cared deeply for all of them, but Athos had claimed a special place in his heart

D’Artagnan shook his head slowly, his wide, dark eyes fixed upon Athos. “No,” he murmured dazedly.

How could he be, when he’d betrayed Athos so monstrously?

Porthos curled a hand around the boy’s neck and pulled him forward, leaning down until their foreheads touched. “We’ll get through this,” he said in a low voice, making the words a solemn vow. “We’ll get _him_ through this. You’ll see.”

D’Artagnan wanted desperately to believe that. Wanted desperately to believe that _he_ wouldn’t be the one to finally break Athos beyond all saving. But he would have to tell him. He owed Athos that much.

If only the man didn’t look so near shattering already …

Athos gradually stopped shaking, his small, choked sounds of grief and _hurt_ quieting, but he continued to let Aramis hold him, needing the man’s strength and warmth. The wine had finally done its blessed work, separating him from his pain and numbing him to it. He was exhausted, drained, wanted only to collapse here and now and sleep forever. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

He hadn’t finished bleeding for them yet.

Slowly, and with enormous effort, he pulled away from Aramis and sagged against the desk for support. He supposed, idly, that he could just pull himself upon it to sit, but there was absolutely nothing in him that would allow such an affront to Tréville. He’d rather fall to the floor in a heap.

“Anne is … a consummate deceiver,” he sighed. “She is a thief and a liar who excels at getting men to trust her. And she is … beautiful beyond compare. It is no wonder that Richelieu values her. She could beguile any man into giving her his secrets.” _Into giving her his world._

Aramis arched a brow, studying Athos closely. “Are you certain you’re not giving her too much credit?” he asked carefully. “Allowing your own … hurt … to color your judgment?”

Athos snorted softly and started to lift his cup, only to remember that he’d dropped it. A sigh escaped him as he realized he was too tired to retrieve it.

“Here,” Aramis said, passing his cup to him with a wry smile. “I shouldn’t, but God knows you need it.”

Athos dipped his head in gratitude, then raised the cup and drank from it. If Aramis’ God were truly merciful, he would pass out soon.

“You can judge her … skill … for yourselves,” he rasped as the wine spread through him, warming him and softening the world around him. “You’ve seen her at work.” Once more, all eyes in the room snapped to him. “At Ninon’s trial,” he explained.

Aramis frowned in confusion. “Nin–” He broke off abruptly as horrified understanding dawned. “My God!” he gasped, his heart plummeting into his stomach. “Madame de la Chappelle!”

Porthos stiffened and sucked in a hard breath as memory slammed upon him. A beautiful woman spinning a web of lies, with Ninon at the center. And Athos suddenly erupting into fury, into _madness_ , as if he’d been possessed. It had taken all three of them – himself, Aramis, and the captain – to drag the raging man back and wrestle him into something approaching submission–

“Christ,” Tréville whispered, bowing his head and scrubbing a hand over his face as nausea coiled through him. “Sweet, merciful Christ.”

No wonder Athos had gone so mad. Ninon de Larroque had been the first woman he’d shown any interest in that the captain could recall. She had been perfect for him – beautiful, intelligent, independent, strong – and she, clearly, had been just as captivated by him. They would have been an ideal match, magnificent in every way.

And Richelieu had destroyed her, had used Athos’ wife to do it.

“So you see,” Athos breathed, staring down into his wine, “because of my weakness, Ninon was ruined.”

“No, _no!_ ” d’Artagnan protested angrily. He hadn’t been there until the very end, when they’d saved Richelieu and rescued the comtesse from the flames, but he’d heard about the trial from Aramis and Porthos. “That wasn’t your fault! It was Richelieu’s! And Milady’s! It was all _their_ doing!”

Porthos and Aramis turned to stare at him. Tréville lifted his head and frowned. Athos slowly dragged his gaze from his wine to the boy, his sodden mind catching on one word.

“What did you call her?” he asked softly.

Too late, d’Artagnan realized what he’d said. And he knew the time had come. He would have given anything to spare Athos from this, would have _died_ before adding to the man’s pain. Athos had already suffered so much, _too_ much; God alone knew how much more he could take. But d’Artagnan no longer had a choice.

Then again, perhaps using _him_ to destroy her husband had been Milady’s plan all along.

_Say the word, and I’ll kill him for you._

_I may hold you to that one day._

He drew himself up to his full height, refusing to shrink from this. “I think– I think I know your wife,” he said quietly, somehow remaining calm even as the words carved pieces out of his soul. “And I think I have … since I first came to Paris.”

Athos went still, his blood draining from him, a cold chill engulfing him. _No …_

D’Artagnan swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet those bleak eyes. “The night before I challenged you, I stayed at an inn.” He knew Aramis, Porthos, and Tréville were staring, but he could see only Athos, the sick pallor of his flesh, the desolation in his eyes, the fine tremors chasing through his body. “A couple came in. A Spaniard and … and a woman.” He licked his dry lips. “The most beautiful I’d ever seen. Dark hair, green eyes, skin like white silk. That night, she … she came to me … seduced me– She wore a black silk choker … to hide scars on her throat. She s– she said–” The words were sticking in his throat, but he forced them out. “She said … the man she loved … had tried to murder her.”

Athos couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. His last strength deserted him and his knees buckled beneath him. Unable to stop himself, he pitched helplessly to the floor, Aramis dropping beside him, the man’s arms all that held him upright.

_Anne …_

“Brandy!” Aramis barked to no one in particular, terrified by Athos’ pallor and bonelessness, by the unseeing _blankness_ in his eyes. The man’s flesh had gone cold and clammy, his breathing too fast, too shallow. A terrible fear stabbed into his heart. Merciful God, how much could one man take?

Porthos knelt at the other side of Athos’ limp body, a cup of brandy in one hand. He circled his other arm about Athos’ shoulders, adding his strength and support to Aramis’. “Drink,” he ordered softly, placing the cup at Athos’ pale mouth. “C’mon, Athos, drink for me.”

Aramis loosed a harsh, wild sound, almost a laugh, at them having to _beg_ Athos to drink. Christ, they were all going mad.

D’Artagnan wanted _desperately_ to go to Athos, but doubted he’d be welcome. Doubted he any longer had the right. He’d done this. He’d betrayed the man, and in the most terrible of ways. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t known, that _she_ had manipulated and used him. All that mattered was that Athos was hurt deeply, perhaps _mortally_ , and he had dealt the wound.

“D’Artagnan.” A gentle voice sounded in his ear and a strong hand gripped his arm, supporting him even as his own knees threatened to buckle. “Sit.”

He turned his head and blinked in confusion to see the captain at his side. Yet rather than the anger he expected to see in the man’s face, _deserved_ to see, he saw only concern and a sympathy that bewildered him. The captain loved all his men, yes, but Athos was his second, his _friend_. He should have been _furious_ , would be within his rights to throw him out of this room. Out of the _regiment_.

“I sh– I should–”

“You should sit,” Tréville said quietly, “before you fall.” He’d never seen the boy so pale, even when wounded, had never seen him look so _lost_. He felt a terrible, burning anger, but not toward d’Artagnan. It was all for Richelieu, for the weapon he’d found, honed, and thrust into the hearts of his men. “Come,” he urged, guiding the boy to the chair nearby and easing him down into it. “We’ll get through this. _He’ll_ get through this. Athos is strong. You’ll see.”

 _Please, God,_ he added in a silent, desperate prayer.

Aramis and Porthos held Athos between them as Porthos slowly dribbled brandy into his mouth. He swallowed weakly, reflexively, welcoming the fire spreading through him. Gradually he began to drink more consciously, with more strength, and slowly grew more aware of his surroundings. And of an absence he felt much too keenly.

“D’Artagnan,” he whispered faintly, dragging his eyes slowly up to Aramis’ face.

“The captain’s got him,” Aramis assured him. “He’ll be fine.”

“Tell him to come here.”

“Athos–”

“ _Please!_ ”

Aramis couldn’t resist the pleading in that voice, in those eyes. He had no idea why Athos wanted the boy, but didn’t have it in him to deny him. “D’Artagnan,” he called over his shoulder, purposely ignoring Porthos’ scowl.

D’Artagnan swallowed hard and slowly licked his lips, trying to steel himself. But whatever Athos said, whatever the man did, he would deserve it. He glanced up at Tréville, and was faintly reassured by the man’s small smile and nod, by the gentle squeeze of the hand at his shoulder. Drawing another deep breath, he pushed himself to his feet and moved slowly to where Athos half-sat, half-lay in Aramis and Porthos’ arms, then knelt slowly before him.

“Athos,” he breathed, his heart twisting in his breast, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know, I swear! I never meant to hurt you. If I had known–”

“Peace,” Athos whispered, somehow finding the strength to sit up on his own. He leaned forward, ignoring the swimming of his head, and grasped the boy by his doublet, pulling him closer and fixing a bleary, blurry gaze upon him. “Tell me everything she’s done.” He lifted his other hand to the boy’s face. “If she has hurt you, I swear–”

“No, no, I promise.” D’Artagnan caught those pale, shaking fingers in his hand and held them tightly, needing Athos to know he was well and whole. “She killed the Spaniard and tried to make it look as if I did it, but after that–”

“You’ve seen her more than once?” Porthos asked quietly, grimly, not liking this at all. God knew what any more revelations would do to Athos.

D’Artagnan nodded. “Several times,” he answered reluctantly, sharing Porthos’ worry. “I know her as Milady de Winter. She … she seems … to have taken,” he winced and bowed his head, “an interest in me.”

“Dear God,” Aramis breathed, wondering if this could get any worse.

Of course it could.

“No. _No!_ ” Athos snarled as rage and terror exploded through him.

_I give you fair warning, Athos. Leave me alone, or you’ll regret it._

Christ, was _this_ what she had meant? Would she kill d’Artagnan and leave _his_ body at his feet as well?

He tore his hands from d’Artagnan and struggled to his feet, lost in the memory of the venom, the _malice_ , she had exuded that night. He swayed dangerously for a moment as the floor rolled and writhed beneath him, but years of experience with wounds and wine came to his aid. “I’ll kill her!” he spat, lurching toward the door, his fear for d’Artagnan twisting his soul into knots. “She’s taken one brother from me! I won’t let her take another!”

“Athos! Athos, _stop_!” Tréville hurried to place himself between his lieutenant and the door. Athos was deathly pale and barely able to stand, but Tréville had no doubt he would storm whatever walls lay between him and his treacherous wife. He’d seen the man in battle often enough to understand just how determined, and formidable, he could be, no matter his condition. “This isn’t the way.”

“It’s the _only_ way!” he cried, desperation gripping him. “I should have made certain when I hanged her, I should have stayed to watch! I should have cut her head from her shoulders with my own hands!” Bitterness and raw fury twisted his pale face into a white mask of hatred. “I’ll not make that mistake again!”

“You can’t,” Tréville said quietly, calmly, reaching out to lay strong hands on the younger man’s shoulders. “She is the cardinal’s agent. If you kill her, he will not take it lightly. He will have you up before another firing squad or the hangman, and we will not be able to save you this time.”

“The firing squad,” Aramis murmured, frowning as the captain’s words tugged at his mind.

“What?” Porthos asked, recognizing that look.

“The firing squad,” Aramis said again, lost in his thoughts. “Those accusations against Athos. Specifically _Athos_. Why him?”

Porthos caught on immediately. “You think it was her doin’?”

“Why not?” Aramis looked at him and lifted two brows. “What better form of revenge than to destroy his reputation and see him executed as a murderer and a thief?”

“Like he tried to do to her,” Porthos breathed, fresh anger at the woman igniting within him. He still remembered the hideous sight of those guns aimed at Athos, the sound of the man shouting at his executioners to shoot.

_Christ, it had been so close …_

“She wanted to use me against him,” d’Artagnan put in, his thoughts turning in the same direction. “Against all of you, I suppose, but against Athos specifically.” He swallowed hard and rose to his feet, striding to his mentor with grim determination. “She gave me the money to enter the challenge,” he said, forcing himself to meet Athos’ eyes, and whatever reaction his confession elicited. “And … there was a pendant with it. A silver forget-me-not.”

Athos gasped and reeled, his hand immediately going to his own locket. “A f–” He couldn’t get the words out. He couldn’t _breathe_.

D’Artagnan and Tréville both reached out, each gripping a shoulder and holding him up. Porthos and Aramis scrambled to their feet and hurried over, Porthos positioning himself at Athos’ back, ready to catch him if, _when_ , he fell.

“You would have known what it was immediately, if you’d seen it,” d’Artagnan went on, almost wishing Athos _would_ collapse, if only to let himself have peace. “I think she was counting on that.”

“To drive a wedge between you,” Aramis said grimly. “To create suspicion, distrust.”

Dear God, he’d known dangerous, calculating women in his time, but _this_ one …

“I think … I think she wants to turn me away from the Musketeers and recruit me for Richelieu,” d’Artagnan breathed. He knew what he said next would only cause Athos more pain, but he also knew he had no choice. They all had to know the _full_ truth of Milady’s perfidy if they had any hope of stopping her. “Do you remember when we were trying to catch Vadim, the night I was chased by those Red Guards?”

“You killed ’em,” Porthos murmured. “Though–” He frowned as a memory suddenly came to him. “You didn’t have a pistol–”

“I didn’t kill them,” d’Artagnan sighed. “ _She_ did. She saved me from them. And then she–” What? _She kissed me?_ One look at Athos’ tortured eyes told him he couldn’t say that. “She told me to consider my future, and that to choose the Musketeers would be to choose oblivion. And,” he swallowed hard, bracing himself for what his next words might do to Athos, “after it was all over and I returned to my room, I f– I found a bouquet … of small blue flowers … on my bed.”

“Dear God,” Athos breathed, feeling sick. He sagged heavily against Porthos, his knees betraying him again, and numbly allowed the big man to guide him back to the chair and ease him down into it. He groaned and leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees and dropping his face into his hands, struggling just to breathe. The thought of d’Artagnan falling prey to _her_ struck him like a blade in the heart.

“Athos, listen to me.” D’Artagnan went to him and knelt before him, laying a hand on his knee and gazing earnestly up at him. “You don’t have to worry. I’d never choose the cardinal or the Red Guards over the Musketeers. You know what this life means to me, what all of _you_ mean to me. I could never turn my back on that.”

Athos exhaled softly and lifted his head with an effort, staring at the boy before him. “That’s not what frightens me, d’Artagnan,” he whispered faintly. “She is dangerous, _treacherous_. If she has set her sights on you, whether for the cardinal’s purposes or her own, she will not take it lightly when you reject her. I know what she is capable of. And,” he reached down, idly brushing the boy’s hair out of his eyes, “I could not bear it if I lost you to her. It would be too much.”

D’Artagnan smiled, the confidence of youth swelling within him. “You won’t lose me. Now that I know who and what she is, I know to be on my guard.” He shrugged. “As long as I’m careful, what can she do to me?”

“Plunge a dagger into your heart, as she did to my brother, or into your back on a crowded street,” Athos rasped, countless possibilities spinning through his mind. “She is a murderer, never forget that. She hired Gallagher to kill the queen. There is _nothing_ she will not do.”

D’Artagnan took Athos’ pale hand in his and held firmly to the long, elegant fingers. “And we beat Gallagher and saved the queen. We can beat her, too.”

“And Richelieu?” Tréville asked quietly. “This … Milady or Madame de la Chappelle or whatever she calls herself may have hired Gallagher, but she was only acting on the cardinal’s behalf. On his orders.” He looked at Athos. “I know how you must hate her, how you wish to punish her, and I understand that. But stopping her cannot be our only goal.” He sighed heavily and shook his head slowly, recognizing the near impossibility of the task before them. “Richelieu tried to kill the queen. We do not know why, and we do not know if he will try again. We must find evidence, _hard_ evidence, of his crimes if we have any hope of seeing him punished, and of protecting Her Majesty.”

Aramis stared at his captain, cold horror gripping him. He couldn’t help but think of Anne, _his_ Anne, as she’d been at the convent – kind, brave, vulnerable – and felt a terrible fear for her. Queen she might be, but she was still a woman, and with precious few friends at court. If Richelieu _were_ to try again …

“Surely he would not be that stupid?” he asked hoarsely, hoping against hope that even Richelieu’s arrogance knew some limits. “Mellendorf is in the Bastille, has signed a confession! If another attempt on her is made, it would throw doubt on his guilt. Richelieu has to know that!”

“An’ there’s always Spain,” Porthos pointed out. “I can’t imagine that King Philip would take the murder of his sister lightly. Killin’ the queen could be the fastest way to start a war.”

Tréville had no answer for them. He’d had many differences – arguments – with Richelieu over the years, and he despised the man’s methods. But he’d always thought him _loyal_ , as devoted to France as he himself. A plot to kill the queen defied everything he knew, or thought he knew, of the man.

“We have to find Anne,” Athos sighed, hating it but knowing they had no choice. _Christ, would he never be free of her?_ “She is the key. We must convince her that Gallagher confessed all before he died. If she believes her neck is on the block, she will give us Richelieu.”

“But how do we get to her?” Aramis asked. “We have no idea where she is. And Richelieu will protect her. Or kill her to protect himself. We can’t just go barging into his office and demand he turn her over.”

D’Artagnan swallowed hard. “Use me,” he suggested softly, staring at Athos, knowing _he_ would be the one to convince. “She–”

“No,” Athos interrupted in a cold voice, finality in his tone. “I will not put you at such risk–”

“I’m a Musketeer,” d’Artagnan reminded him. “I’m a soldier of France, the same as you or Porthos or Aramis–”

“Yes, and I wouldn’t throw either of _them_ into my treacherous wife’s claws–”

“She hired a mercenary to kill the queen,” Aramis reminded him. “If these three had been just a little later in arriving, Gallagher would have succeeded. Who is to say another attempt will not?” He moved to Athos and set a hand on his shoulder, looking somberly down at him. He understood the man’s feelings, his _fears_ , but he also knew what was at stake. “What other purpose do we have,” he asked softly, “if not this?”

Athos shot a hot glare up at him, feeling a hard surge of anger, a suspicion that Aramis’ eagerness to throw d’Artagnan into Anne’s clutches was due to his own reckless passion for the queen. Instinctively, though, he knew better. Aramis would give his life for her even if he were not in love with her, just as he would for the king. It was, as he had said, the entire purpose for their lives.

D’Artagnan’s included.

No, he realized, it was his own motives that were suspect. He would shelter them _all_ from Anne if he could, France be damned, would break every oath he’d ever made if it meant protecting _them_. She frightened him as no one else did, as no one else _could_ , because he knew his own vulnerability to her. She shattered his reason, twisted his mind, plunged him into a madness that she alone could provoke. He hated her, _despised_ her, wanted her dead–

And yet he still loved her. He feared he always would.

He bowed his head again and thrust his hands into his hair, trying to force his mind to function through the fog of alcohol and exhaustion. But it was no use. His strength was gone, his thoughts little more than wisps of vapor. A hard ache pounded incessantly behind his eyes. “You will need a plan,” he sighed.

Aramis frowned. “ _You?_ ” he asked in surprise at the odd phrasing. “What about _we_?”

Athos lifted his head with an effort and raised weary eyes to his friend, an odd white light dancing at the edges of his vision. “This is all my fault,” he breathed, guilt a heavy weight upon his soul. “She is alive because of my weakness, because I failed in my duty to the law. To my _brother_. I brought this viper into our midst. Because of me, the queen is in danger. You cannot possibly trust my judgment–”

“The queen’s in danger because of _Richelieu_ ,” Porthos corrected, coming forward to stand at Athos’ other side and staring down at him through warm, dark eyes. “If your … _Milady_ … weren’t around, he’d just use someone else.”

“And Ninon?” he asked softly, his heart clenching at the thought of her. She’d lost _everything_ –

“Again, all the cardinal’s doin’,” Porthos insisted. “But she is _alive_ because of you, because you got down on your knees to that man an’ _begged_ ’im not to kill ’er.” He smiled gently. “There’s not a lot of noblemen I know who’d do that.”

He flinched. “I’m not–”

“You are,” Porthos said firmly. “You don’t have to call yourself that for us to know it.” He smiled warmly and reached out, laying a hand on Athos’ shoulder and squeezing gently. “I just wish there were more like you. France’d be better for it.”

Athos stared up at him, saw the love shining in those dark eyes, and suddenly remembered how he’d treated Porthos earlier. Porthos, who was a better man than any nobleman he could name, and who deserved far better from the likes of _him_. “I spoke horribly to you outside the palace,” he whispered. “I had no right.” He winced and dropped his gaze. “I would ask your forgiveness, but I don’t deserve it. I am sorry, though. And bitterly ashamed.”

“Hey.” Porthos knelt down to meet those guilt-washed eyes. When Athos glanced away, he reached out and slipped a hand under his chin, turning his head until the man had no choice but to look at him. “First of all,” he said quietly, “I get to decide who I forgive an’ who I don’t, yeah? Second,” he smiled sadly, “this hasn’t exactly been a good day for you. Christ, I don’t know how you’re still able to hold yourself upright. Third,” his smile turned teasing, “you’ve always had a nasty tongue.” He winked. “It’s one of the things we love about you. We just usually point you at the Red Guard when we know you’re in a temper.” His smile faded and he leaned closer, holding Athos’ gaze with his own. “I forgive you, Athos,” he said softly, sincerely. “I will _always_ forgive you. Because we’re brothers, an’ that’s just what brothers do, yeah?”

Athos managed a weak but heartfelt smile. “Yes,” he whispered, unable to manage anything more. Dear God, how had he ended up with these men in his life?

That soft, breathless sigh spurred Porthos to action. The man had reached his limits. “All right,” he said briskly, rising to his feet but taking Athos’ arm in a firm grip, “Aramis, help me get him to his feet. D’Artagnan, go ahead of us to his room and clear the bottles out of our path.” He looked sternly at Athos before he could protest. “You’re goin’ to bed. We can plan later.”

“You don’t need me–”

“Like hell,” Tréville growled, adopting his familiar gruff demeanor to conceal his concern as Aramis and Porthos eased Athos to his feet. But, God, the man looked as ready for his grave as for his bed. “We can wait for you. If I left it to these three, they’d blow up half of Paris!”

D’Artagnan opened the door, then turned to frown at his friends. “Should we be insulted?”

Aramis shrugged, settling Athos’ arm over his shoulder and circling his own about the man’s waist. “Not really. The captain has a point. Porthos _does_ love explosions.”

“Oi!” the big man protested, securing his own hold on Athos as the man sagged heavily against him. “You’re not any better at plannin’! Yours just usually involve shootin’ anything that moves.”

“Gentlemen,” Athos said weakly, stopping the argument before it could get started. The room was spinning about him, the floor rolling beneath him, and his legs seemed made of lead one moment and water the next. “We can discuss your ideas of strategy later,” he said thickly, his words badly slurred. “For now, I … I think I need to lie down.”

“Yeah,” Porthos sighed as the last vestiges of color drained from Athos’ face, “I bet you do. Come on, then, let’s get you to bed.” And with the ease given them by five years of practice, he and Aramis guided Athos out of Tréville’s office, holding him up when he stumbled and taking more and more of his weight upon themselves as he gradually lost the ability to walk himself.

D’Artagnan darted ahead, making certain their path to Athos’ room was clear, and Tréville followed behind, ready to provide additional help with his lieutenant should it be needed. In the training yard below and around the garrison, men watched their slow progress with knowing eyes, then shrugged and went back to their duties. They’d all seen Athos like this before, would likely see it again. And would still follow him without question.

They got Athos to his room without incident, stripped him of his weapons, doublet, boots, and breeches, and got him into his bed, Porthos lowering him gently while Aramis spread a blanket over him. D’Artagnan settled the chamber pot beside the bed, ready for the sickness that would inevitably come, and then all three tugged off and deposited their own belongings and found various places to sprawl, settling in to watch over Athos. Porthos even produced a worn – and probably marked – deck of cards from one of his pockets.

Tréville watched them for long moments, marveling anew at the close bond of brotherhood between four such different men, then smiled and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

He’d been right after all. They _would_ get through this, all of them.

And come out stronger on the other side.

_The End_


End file.
